Scorched and Scarred

The scars of the fires that burn and scorch the land do not fade in a lifetime,

                they leave ash to tell their tale.

The scent of the burning flesh of the forest fills the air,

many die by the hand of fire,

 life boiled out by heat.

Soot clouds the sky long after the flames have died.

This is one face of fire,

 the face of its destruction,

the face of the death bringer.

But always after fire the forest is renewed.

Strong, young trees replace the wise but wasted elders.

Brush and debris are swept in smoke from the land,

 bits of ash as skeletons on the ground.

 Amid this new sprouts rise,  

young and strong.

It thus the place of fire,

       the usurper and bringer of death,

 by the hand of nature  to bring new life. 

Overload

Shredded bits of paper from the sky

Sprinkles of snow

A sea of white and letters.

Rain soaked paper in the street

Rivers of white water

A river of must.

People stream out of open doors

Trudging through sog

Blinded in fog.

Bits stories survive the deluge

Eyes that seek may see

Most think they see
But are blind.

Lets play a game. Try and guess what this poem is about. There is a specific idea behind this poem. The title should give you hint. 

Who's Holding onto Who?

Better for you if I was bare, Naked to the world, Utterly defenseless. I needed you, scratch that ‘need’, when I am bare. You numbed me to the pain of the wounds stung by the bitter winds on the hill were I still stand.

The sky fades to gray and soon the light will fail.

That is when I need you must, when the world around me is all in darkness.

Anything could be out in that valley, both for ill and for good.

But while I still need you I dare not venture out, and while you are here you dare not let me.

 If I go to that unknown valley I will be lost to you forever, and for the better.

It is that which we both fear, me being on my own.

You thrive on my dependency. You cut me and paint my skin red so you can dress my wounds. You tell me they are my fault so I will thank you when you bandage up my heart. I need you, you have made sure of it, but for now I’m forcing myself to go without, a fast of sorts. And hopefully at the end I will break free of this addiction, that is unless you force your way back in.

The inspiration:

I for some reason or another I write my most emotionally intense works, and arguably my best, in the late hours of the evening, alone with my computer, camping on Facebook. I don't actually do much on Facebook. I don't have to post my every waking thought. I'm not the type of Facebooker that thinks everyone gives a shit about what think I'm thinking every moment of the day, because the truth is they don't. I don't leave very many comments on peoples photos and statuses. what I do do on Facebook is stalk people.

I will spend hours sometimes stalking peoples pages, usually guys that I think are hot or some person or another who usually has lots of drama, with me or with other people. I was doing this just when I decided to go look at the page of someone that I haven't talked to, or really even thought about for awhile. He will remain nameless. But just seeing his posts, however benign, and his photos, however bland, brought something in me that I thought was long gone. I was once again bitter, and at the same time still in love with him. I wanted, and even as I'm writing this still want, what we had back, however destructive it may have been. I want the feel of his body against mine back. I want the to feel loved, if in the end the love was feigned. 

Being with him was painful.It felt that constant rejection, the kind were they act like they have excepted you, invited you in and decided to keep, only to through you into the darkness like a dog. It was like he kept losing me in the coach because he had become distracted by some new, shinier toy. Our 'relationship' was only pain. But he has a way of making pain feel like euphoria. 

Of This My Next Day                                                                             

Well into the night the shadows slumber

the dark things cease to thunder.

Past the hour that the devil loves,

the clock's hand long past striking three

and still I lie awake, sleep far from my taking.

My mind racing upon the possibilities

of the day yet to come.

The acted verse of my fellow on the stage of the day

that had already come

reeling in my head,

projected as images on my

closed but sleepless eyes.

Their drama,

shared with mine,

seeming in my sleepless trans to hold the most

important of places in the world.

I await the things that tomorrow will bring,

in anxious anticipation.

The wonder that could be my life in

this new day.

And yet it seems that when it comes my dread

under guise of excited imagining is revealed,

my waiting breath held for nothing.

I will, like it has always been,

be disappointed by the lack of creativity

in fates cruel hand as it strikes upon the hours of the day.

Seeming to repeat the pattern,

the circle coming to a full end and around again

Only looks different

in its torturous monotony

of the petty squabbles, of petty people.

Jested words and unmeant gestures taken with offense.

The whispering of what they feel is important news,

its truth seeming less then what the scandal would belie.

Scandal is what they seek, to liven the dreariness of

everyday toils.

They pass it like some delicious drug

in all its addictiveness and I,

though wishing with sincerity that I did not,

partake alongside them.

For this day, yet despite my knowledge of the truth,

knowing that it will be the same formula,

the same hours regurgitated out by time, I go sleepless now.

I spend my energy worrying on unimportant acted things

the same thing, every night.

Always awake beneath the sleeping shadow,

warned of the late and early hour by the

ticking of the clock,

with fear tinged excitement for the coming

of the waking sun and the beginning of my

cloned play on the stage

of this, my next day.